By Lance Minnis
When I was growing up, we lived in a large old farmhouse with a nice open wrap-around porch.
I must have painted that house five times as a kid, because the weather boards were so old, paint would no longer stick, and years of accumulated paint would chip off between one summer and the next.
Of course, my father would rouse me out of bed early on Saturday, and we would get a good start on some painting project or other. He would often leave me alone to complete it, and then check my work when I was finished.
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